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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25631593">Write Your Letters In The Sand</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeyourownlifestory/pseuds/writeyourownlifestory'>writeyourownlifestory</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Queen (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, Artist!John Deacon, Bisexual Roger Taylor, M/M, WWII, War time</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:21:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,711</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25631593</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeyourownlifestory/pseuds/writeyourownlifestory</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men are brought together by chance, torn apart by war, and find each other again by choice.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Deacon/Roger Taylor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>SO. I had originally written this plot for a Hardzello fic and it's probably one of my favorites to date. However, due to everything going on in the world and the lack of attention that has been brought it to by Joe Mazzello, I have more or less resigned myself from that fandom. However, this story means a lot to me so with the suggestion of some friends, I thought I'd bring it into one ship that will never let me down. I hope you enjoy it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Roger was just seventeen when his mother hired an instructor to teach him how to paint. She had hoped he would be more well rounded by having a bit of art in his life; to have a bit of culture in him despite living in such a tiny little town.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man was well known in the countryside, though not many people knew about him in the city. Roger had been born in Cornwall, but his father relocated them to London after getting a new job. It wasn’t what he wanted, but he never did get a say in his own life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His parents were going to pay the man well and even let him stay in their home for the time being. It was big enough. They had a good stretch of land and even had gates in front of their home, but it wasn’t a mansion like some other people's homes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His friend Brian came from money. He lived in a big mansion on the hill where parties were always thrown. People drank and danced endlessly. Roger wasn’t much for dancing, nor was he much for drinking. Nobody knew what he liked to do and to be honest, neither did Roger. Not that he minded much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His father was a dentist and he was certain he would follow in his footsteps. Right now, none of that mattered, however. He was young and fresh out of school and his mother wanted him to paint. To make her a pretty picture to hang over the mantle so she could show off to all her friends.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger didn’t know what to expect when the instructor arrived, but he found himself taken back by the sight of him. He didn’t look much like an artist, but rather a work of art. He had a gentle expression about him, with a strong jawline and sweet eyes. There were some good looking people in their town, but nobody liked this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nobody who had a smile that could light up the whole room or had a booming voice with a delicious accent. It threw Roger off immensely. It was different from his own. More posh and pristine. He was soft-spoken, while Roger tended to ramble aimlessly about everything and anything. Roger played it off as just regular old nerves bundling up around him. He wasn't very good at art. Never had been. Shit, he couldn’t even draw a decent heart let alone a gorgeous horizon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man — John as he had given his name — didn’t seem faltered in the least. He was thankful for the career opportunity in the states and was ready to take on any challenge the Taylor’s threw at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It remained casual mostly. They would work on something every day, whether it would be a simple sketch that Roger had been working on in his mind or a full-blown portrait. John had insisted that everybody was an artist in one way or another and that the key to unlocking those talents laid deep inside the person.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger took that as his way of saying even if Roger was absolute garbage at art, that he surely had to be good at something else, right? Roger would never allow it to bother him, not really. He didn’t plan on becoming some great English artist and sell his works by the hundreds. All he cared about was making his mother happy and making sure that Mr. Deacon got a decent day to work out of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he was to be taken in by his family then Roger wanted the man to at least pay his dues. Neither man seemed interested in skipping their lessons, which seemed interesting enough. They started slow, keeping it all professional. Roger had been a bit of a jokester back in school, but he knew the man didn’t come all this way just to see his student act like a buffoon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, they began to relax around one another and their lessons became less boring as they went on. John began teaching him other things, such as languages and literature. He could speak Italian and French and he brought enough books with him to stock a small library.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The reading Roger didn’t mind so much. He had always been a bit of a fanboy when it came to certain comic books so novels weren’t very far off. Poetry never interested any of the people around him, but Roger found it fascinating. So much so he began keeping a journal with him at all times to write down the thoughts that would pop into his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Some were written in perfect harmony while others didn’t make a lick of sense. He never minded really and neither did John, who stumbled upon him writing one morning. The air was cooler than normal and Roger found comfort sitting in a tree in his backyard. He was working on his latest piece when the brunet plopped beside him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He never allowed anyone to read his work before, but he felt an artistic connection with the man and allowed him to take a look. John was impressed, to say the least. While his true form of art would always relay on images, there was no denying the beauty and meaning behind Roger’s words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had requested more and while writing for purpose over pleasure was new to the brunet, he found it easy to come up with little letters and soliloquies for the man. He would write at least three a day, turning them all into him like they were a homework that needed to be graded. John loved them all more and more and before Roger knew it, he was printing out more works than he knew what to do with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He collected them all in a small chest he kept in his room, hidden away from the world except for himself and John. The last thing he needed was his parents to see some of the things he had pulled from his heartstrings.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Some were as simple as describing the weather while others went into depth about his personal feelings, using metaphors and similes to drag his point across. The only person Roger trusted with his work was John. He found that he began to crave the man's attention, hoping to wow him with each passing piece he came up for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was getting better at painting, but not by much. John decided one afternoon that they needed a change in scenery and swept them away to the ocean side. Roger knew the place well enough as he had spent his childhood running along the shore with his friends and family and dog.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sitting up on the green grass on the hill, watching as the tide rolled in. It should have inspired Roger to a point, but it didn’t. No, what brought fire out in his heart was watching John and how he presented the situation. It was such an easy thing to do. Just come to London and teach a good old fashioned boy how to make a pretty picture.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger didn’t expect him to put in as much effort as he did. He didn’t expect John to care as much as he did. He made the world of art seem like it was something worth taking seriously and even if Roger knew he would never have a future in the field, he found himself slowly falling in love with the world of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He felt himself slowly falling for John as well, but he ignored those feelings for as long as possible. They would spend quite a bit of time together, having both been living on the same estate now. Roger was an only child, making his upbringing a bit more lonely than others. They didn’t have any servants other than the few that would tend to the garden every few days, so Roger had grown used to having nobody other than his dog and parents to talk to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now there was this handsome man who was speaking with such loveliness, showing him a world he didn’t even truly know existed. He was kind and gracious, smart yet precocious. He never had a bad word to say about anyone, even the assholes in town who were more than happy to make him feel unwelcome.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He dressed nicely and spoke so carefully, he caused all women to giggle at the very sight of him yet he never tried to go after them. Men in town didn’t like him much and it was easy for the words ‘poofter’ or ‘fairy’ to get thrown around here and there. Roger never let anything happen to him, but there had been a few times when John had nearly gotten his face pounded in by not backing down to someone who was taunting him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John said that real men did not fight, but rather stood their ground and kept their pride. Roger just wanted to make it one day into town without someone either flirting or him or threatening to pound his face in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John didn’t seem bothered, however. He was wise like that. He focused on the more important things, such as life, and love, and capturing the little things like the American Dream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger wished he had the same amount of confidence John had. To just not care about what other people thought about him. Roger found himself wondering, however, if the little things he had noticed and the words people had called him all meant the same thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John would flirt and kiss the hands of the ladies he met but he’d never accepted their invitations to go driving or take a walk through the park. Roger had his fair share of the ladies, finding it rather easy to win the other. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger was a handsome man, that much was known. He had light eyes and fair hair; a fit build and a good sense of humor. He could show a lady a good time, but rarely did it ever transcend into more. He and Brian used to hit the town from time to time and flirt with a pretty lass until her knickers were on the floor. And yet, none of it ever left Roger feeling anything other than empty and bored. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Truth was, Roger didn’t see a bright future ahead of himself. Sure, he would eventually inherit the money his family had, but what else could he offer? He didn’t see a career or a wife. He just saw himself, sitting in a field of flowers, basking in the warm English sun. And that was enough for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John had a promising future but continued to turn down the chance of returning to his homeland. He appeared content just sitting and teaching the Taylor boy. Roger constantly bit back the urge to ask him the truth. If the whispers and rumors were real or if people were just jealous and afraid of something they didn’t understand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger didn’t understand either, realizing that over time that the brunet had utterly bewitched him. He never thought of someone the way he thought of John and while it was a dangerous game he was playing, Roger was always determined to come out on top as a winner.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger had cornered him one day, deciding enough was enough and dropped the ball on him. Roger expected John to deny it right out or demand that he keep the secret. Instead, John just shrugged and kept on painting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Labels are not what makes a man who he is. They merely inflate his ego.” He had replied, switching his wrist around to get the perfect shape of the flower petal he was currently working on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger wanted to bash his head through the fucking easel. Instead of just confessing or denying it, he had to make it into some strange game. Roger wanted to be mad and demand answers, but he knew he didn’t have a say in John’s choice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could speak in fucking tongues for all that mattered. In the end, if John was content living his life the way he was and didn’t hurt anyone, who the hell was Roger to judge?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, he found himself getting frustrated. Not so much by John himself, but rather the situation around them. Roger felt so lost in himself and yet John handled himself with such ease. Late at night, they would sit outside, trying to escape the heat of the house. With their hair and shirts wet with sweat they would speak softly in the moonlight about whatever crossed their minds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes it was simple things, like how John was adjusting to London. Other times they would go back and forth, quietly exchanging words of poetry. John was the only person Roger felt like he could be real with. The only person he could confide in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To everyone else, he would put on that big smile and perk up his southern charm. John wasn’t the only one who could win people over by putting on a show, though the brunet saw right through him. John had caught him one night, cornering him after he spent the entire supper avoiding his mother's questions of the future.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John had suggested Roger focus on his writing. That he became an American poet like the men and women they would read about. Roger scoffed at the idea. He wasn’t a writer. He wasn’t an artist. He was just a small-town guy with too many thoughts in his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They had gotten into a scuffle because of it. John spoke far too boldly and called him a coward, insisting that the young man was more than content with spending his life doing absolutely nothing than to handle the fear of missed opportunities.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger didn’t like those words one bit and was more than happy to make the brunet pay for them. The gardener pulled them apart and Roger’s mother made it very clear she wasn’t going to allow such behavior in the house. She gave the two young men a choice: either clear up whatever was going on or their lessons would go no further.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John made no objections as he knew damn well none of this was his fault. He allowed the ball to bounce in Roger’s court and while Roger wanted nothing more than to take the said ball and bash it into the pretty painter's head, he swallowed it down and let him keep his job.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t know why really. Maybe because John had been right all along. That he was scared and felt worthless almost all the time. That the only time Roger felt anything was when they were working on some piece of art, whether it be writing or drawing or painting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He found John by the waterside, sitting in the sand with his sketchbook in hand. He was so focused on what he had been making that he didn’t even realize the brunet was creeping up behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger owned him an apology and he planned on giving him one and telling him that he told his mother that he could stay. That the fight had been of his own making and was just a misunderstanding between the two. Before he could even start, however, John began speaking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you ever imagined paradise, Roger?” He asked, his eyes drifting out to the sea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On his lap as his leather-bound sketchbook, a private object Roger had seen in passing but never grew up enough courage to look inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nirvana can be many things to many different people. To some, they think of it as an endless liquor cabinet. To others, a loving nursery in the family home. But this, this is my paradise, Roger. This is my garden of Eden.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger followed his gaze, watching the green grass around them blow in the wind, the gentle waves crash onto the shore. It was a picturesque sight, to say the least. One that could never be fully captured in a picture, even if they tried.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John turned his head suddenly and only then did Roger realize how close the two had been sitting. “Except in my version, Roger, there are two Adam’s and no Eve’s.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger wanted to question his vision but found his thoughts cut off at the seam as John closed the gap between them. Kissing someone wasn’t new to Roger. He had a way about him that could make any lady fall under his spell, but this was different. He wasn’t trying to convince John to come back to his room so he could get him naked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger had never kissed another man before. The thought never even crossed his mind until now. When John pulled away, Roger was left staring at him. Mouth ajar, frozen in suspense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I will tell your mother I will take my leave in the morning,” John muttered to him and then proceeded to push off the ground, leaving Roger sitting alone in the sand by the sea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger sat by the water until it grew dark and the bike ride home took longer than usual. His mind continued to go back to John and his words and his kiss. Homosexuality did exist in his world but it wasn’t spoken of lightly or even in the best of ways. He had seen John take the abuse by some nearly every time they went into town.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At first, he thought they were just being cruel. That he was an outsider who was incredibly polite and to the thickheaded morons in this town, that was enough proof that he preferred to be with men than women.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It became clear to Roger now that John knew exactly who he was and had no plans on hiding it. And that infuriated Roger even further than before. The bible spoke of this sort of thing. One man does not lay with another the way he would lay with a woman, it just wasn’t natural.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And yet Roger still found himself lying in his bed, tossing and turning as images of the beautiful art instructor danced around in his mind. Eventually, it became too much for the man to bear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of staying in his room and allowing John to take his leave as he had planned to, the brunet made his way down the hall to where John’s room currently was. He had seen in films where the person waking up looking as good as they did when they went to bed. It was all movie magic, obviously, but not for John.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His sleep shirt was unbuttoned just enough to give a decent look at his chest and his hair tousled here and there. His voice was heavier in sleep but he looked alert when he caught sight of Roger. For a moment, the brunet thought he saw fear in his eyes and wondered if he thought this would be some form of lynching coming his way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He did think Roger was there to hurt him for what he had done? Roger wouldn’t lie and say he didn’t think about it. A small part of his mind was disgusted by the act and wanted to beat it out of his system.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not like you,” Roger told him bluntly. “I don’t imagine the sea or the wind or having another Adam over an Eve. I don’t imagine anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Duly noted,” John replied simply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want you to go.” He added on. “I won’t . . . tell anybody what happened. Whether or not we agree to disagree on certain things, I do like having you around. And I’d prefer it if you did not leave just yet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I may speak so freely, I do not see a purpose in my staying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Teach me to draw.” Roger shrugged. “Or paint or whatever. My parents pay you good money to influence me. Just keep doing that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John was quiet for a moment, a shake of his head coming along slowly. “You don’t want my influence, Roger.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t know what I want,” Roger spoke louder than expected. He cleared his throat, standing just a bit taller. “If you want to go, then go. But I’ve said my peace. You make up your mind.” With that, Roger turned on his heel and stalked back to his bedroom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He barely slept a wink, but eventually, he found the morning light hitting his face, alerting him that the sun was up and it was a new day. When he woke, he found John’s room empty. He felt his stomach begin to tighten and a strange rage-filled inside his bones. He dressed and hurried out of the house, unsure of where he was even going to go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grabbing hold of his bike, he walked about ten feet before he heard his mother calling to him. He turned towards the gazebo to see his mother sitting with a paintbrush in her hand and a smile on her face. She was calling to him, just insisting that he come to see what she had created.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John was standing off to the side, beaming proudly. “Mr. Deacon suggested I take a few lessons of my own and look!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The painting was nowhere near perfect but it pleased his mother enough for him to appreciate it. He exchanged a look with John but said nothing more. With his bike laying out on the front lawn, he went back into the house, all thoughts of escaping gone from his mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was later that night, while John was outside on the porch that Roger took the time to speak with him. “So you’re staying.” He mentioned it out loud. He didn’t smoke but didn’t mind when others did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He found it somewhat mesmerizing, the way John focused so carefully on the cigarette; his lips so delicate as they wrapped around the stick, sucking in slowly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For now,” John confessed, his eyes wandering the land rather than looking at his companion. “There is still so much to teach though I am sure your family will grow tired of me eventually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you kidding? I don’t think my mum could ever grow tired of you. You’re like her shiny new toy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Even toys rust, Roger.” He commented, putting the cigarette out. He didn’t smoke often. Only when he was bothered by something. Troubled by a lack of inspiration or letters from his family. Roger wondered if that something this time around was him. “I’ll stay until the end of summer and then I’m taking my leave.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger shifted in his seat, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “Where will you go?” He questioned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John didn’t answer right away. He continued to look out over the land, taking in the gentle moonlight around them. “Wherever I can find my paradise.” He admitted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two men shared a small glance before finally departing with John leaving for the house first. Roger stayed outside, feeling more alone than ever.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm glad everybody is enjoying this! By the way, I didn't make it incredibly obvious, but it is meant to take place during WW2, so around the 1940's</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The two had found a strange middle ground as they carried on through their days. They continued with their painting and drawing, with John teaching him something new any chance he was given. His sketching was still shit but he had to admit that he was getting better at least a little bit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They still went into town now and then, going to pick up the art supplies by the request of his parents, but it was different now. There was an obvious rift between the two even if Roger tried to ignore it. He tried to make it seem like things hadn’t changed. That John hadn’t confessed to him and hadn’t kissed him by the water's edge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That day replayed often in his head, much to his annoyance. He didn’t push him away as he should have, but he also didn’t give in either. He just sat there, taken back and confused. God, how pathetic was he?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John didn’t push the friendship any more than what it had become. He didn’t mention the kiss or give Roger any looks like they once used to share. They were two people existing in the same house, in the same world. Just trying to get by until the end of the summer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger found himself getting more annoyed with the whole situation, enough to where he almost wished he hadn’t stopped John from leaving. His mother would constantly invite her friends over and show him off like he was her prized pooch. Some ladies would bring their daughters over to meet him and they would giggle and blush at his smile and his accent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger rolled his eyes every time. The same girls who wouldn’t give him a second look would still lose their minds over the handsome European man. He found a strange comfort in knowing that John preferred an Adam over an Eve and these women didn’t stand a chance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Some of the ladies suggested having him come and teach their daughters a thing or two, but he denied them all, swearing his allegiance to the Taylor household. His mother was amused by it and his father just laughed aloud, completely unfazed by it all. He was too busy with his work to care much about what his family was up to when he wasn’t around. So long as nobody was getting hurt or in trouble, then let them play on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, Roger could deal with that annoyance. He could deal with the stupidity of the people around him and carry on like never really mattered. That was until that man showed up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Freddie fucking Mercury.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was an old friend of John’s, one who was to stay with them for a few days. He was passing through the states, having arrived in London for work. The sight of the tall man making his way across his lawn, dressed to impress in his military dress. Roger had never seen John smile so brightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had. One night, when the two were alone they had sat together speaking of their ambitions. John spoke of returning to his home in the countryside, where he was free to carry his work. The way he spoke about art was in the purest sense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now here he was, smiling that beautiful smile for a man Roger had never met. The worst part was how utterly kind and friendly Freddie was. His accent was as clean-cut as John’s, but his manners were unbeatable. He had just as much charm as anyone and it made Roger sick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seeing them together, laughing, and speaking of old times, it made him want to throw up. He told himself it was due to his issues. It wasn’t natural, seeing John squeeze his arm and laugh at his jokes. He was acting like a giddy teenage girl. Like the girls who would flaunt themselves at him in town! He was no different and he wanted him to know that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They had a history together and Roger found himself wondering just how friendly the two were. Roger didn’t know which was more outrageous. The idea of two men laying together or just these two specific men.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger tried not to let it bother him. Tried not to gaze angrily from his window as the two would sit outside, the same way John and he had done previously. He went out with his friends to try and focus on something else but found that they had already begun to move on with their lives.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Brian was planning on enlisting in the Marines, planning on heading to boot camp. They didn’t talk about it much, but it was expected. He wanted to make his family proud. To fight for the country his family loved so dearly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Roger returned to his home, he found them together again. Sitting and laughing and smiling. Freddie called out to him, insisting that he join them. They were drinking and laughing about old times. They looked happy together and Roger couldn’t run up the stairs fast enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tried to avoid the two for as long as he could. Freddie was only staying four days, but to Roger, it was four days too long. On the night before he was to take off and head north, his mother invited them all to a party at her country club. Roger did what he could to stay home, but it was no use.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dressed in his very best, he was forced alongside his parents and the two other men to the swanky party where people were dancing and having fun. He wore his Sundays best, at his mother's request, though it didn’t matter a lick. With Freddie wearing his military dress clothes and John looking like he just stepped out of a Shakespearian stage play.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>None of the ladies cared. Oh no, they adored it. Freddie was more than happy to dance with every one of the eligible women. He told the other men to do the same, insisting that a lady loved to be swept off her feet and if a man could dance then he was already one step closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A few took his advice while others just scoffed and rolled their eyes at the man. Roger didn’t take it seriously. The man would be gone by tomorrow and just a few weeks later, John would be following in suit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then everything would go back to normal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, the dancing died down and everyone was relaxing around. People had been coupled off and the older generation was getting ready to leave. Roger didn’t dance with anyone all night, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t like to dance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John and Freddie were sitting with a few people, speaking about something that Roger didn’t catch. The subject didn’t matter. What did matter was how close they were sitting, with their arms touching just carefully. To the naked eye, it would have meant nothing, but to people in the South, with a harsh glance here and there, it meant a hell of a lot more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger’s feet took him over before he could stop himself and before he even realized he was doing it, he dragged John up and away from the situation and out the door. They were alone outside for a long moment, with Roger not saying a single thing. When he finally broke, he knew he sounded like a mad man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t be doing that thing here.” He insisted, leaving the brunet looking more confused than before. “The touching, the smiling. What you do in the privacy of your bedroom is fine but people are different here. They’re cruel and hate-filled.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Freddie and I haven’t done a single thing, Roger,” John told him, though Roger didn’t believe it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The way you two look at one another. It’s not right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last thing they needed was for some hot-headed moron to catch the wind and try to attack them for just living their lives. Roger might not agree with his way of life but that didn’t mean he wanted the brunet to get hurt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was John’s turn to scoff, rolling his eyes at the younger man. Roger continued to speak, explaining the reasons why but John refused to hear about it. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re just ignorant or jealous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger’s eyes widened at the words, at the accusations. “Jel…I’m trying to protect you!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t need protection!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John didn’t live in fear. He didn’t worry about what people thought. All he cared about were his paintings and the things he kept in that sketchbook of his. Roger was figuring the urge to throw the damn thing in a bloody fire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger returned home, without John or his parents or anybody else. He went home and just continued being angry and annoyed with all the things going around him. He thought about how his best friend would be leaving for the marines and he would have nothing but his loneliness and garbage paintings to keep him company.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wasn’t jealous of Freddie. Or maybe he was. Maybe he was jealous over losing his friendship to someone or maybe it was more. He tossed and turned in his bed, completely unsure of what to do next. He didn’t come downstairs when Freddie left, instead, he watched from his window, his eyes zeroing on the car that drove the man off the property.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His parents had plans with friends in town, leaving the two alone. Roger was outside practicing his swinging, trying to focus on anything other than what was running through his mind. He smashed the bat against the grass to let out a bit of steam before throwing the damn thing across the way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stomped his way to John’s room, finding him sitting by the window, sketching in his book. Roger fought the urge to yank it from him and tear out every one of the pages. John stood carefully, sighing as he looked over the younger man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He began speaking though Roger didn’t hear a single word of it. He thought about hitting him. About punching his pretty face in until it was no longer pretty. In making his pouty red lips red with blood and making his gorgeous green eyes black and blue. It would have been so easy but instead, he did the hard thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stepping forward, he placed his hands on John’s cheeks, holding his face still as he kissed him. He found the moment his lips were on John’s, his mind was silent. All the anger and confusion were gone. He could hear the ocean and smell the sea. He was at peace like this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they pulled away, John was staring at him, his eyes wide with bewilderment. Roger was fairly certain the action was the least likely thing ever expected of him. Especially with how he had acted after their last intimate interaction.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stood together silently, letting a few silent beats skip between them before the two pulled one another in. Roger found he could drown himself in John, letting all the negative thoughts fade away as their kissing continued.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They didn’t do more than that, not right away at least. They spent the afternoon wrapped up in one another, more kissing than speaking. When he heard the family car up the drive, Roger practically rolled out of the bed, rushing to the window to see his parents returning. John sat up, unfazed by their return, and grabbed his sketchbook to continue with whatever he was drawing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t worry,” John muttered out. He wasn’t looking at Roger or even out the window. He was just sitting there, looking at his book with his hand moving to shade his latest creation. “You don’t owe me anything. Everybody gets curious now and then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger wanted to ask what he was talking about but the sound of his mother’s voice cut him off. He left John in his room, going off to his mother. It took him a long while before realizing the brunet was attempting to give him an out. To make it less awkward and less pathetic for both their sakes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger thought that was better. Maybe all he needed was a bit of stress relief? Baseball didn’t do it, nor did destroy the grass with the bat. He didn’t know much about sex but there were enough guys who enjoyed it. Maybe that was all he needed. Find someone pretty and sleep with them to shake the nerves that had been building up over time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He spent the entire day telling himself that. Every glance he shared with John, it was nothing more than a way out. He was curious. He was a lonely bastard who had only ever shared a bed with a woman, with no future, fresh out of school who couldn’t paint and just wanted to enjoy himself a little bit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So when he made his way back to John’s room, that was exactly what he told himself. So when they laid together and kissed tenderly, he continued to tell himself that was all it was. Fun. Fun, fun, fun.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And when the voice in his head told him that he was lying, he just ignored it and let the brunet lead the way.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Please tell me what you think down below. Oh and because Joe Mazzello can't say it, I will: BLACK LIVES MATTER</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Roger found that he and John were once again slipping into a comfortable rhythm with one another. They were painting and drawing and reading great novels that John had persuaded him to read.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was like how it was when he had first arrived and the budding friendship was back on. They went almost everywhere together, spending their time speaking of this or that. The only difference now was what they did behind closed doors.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger refused to put a name onto it. They weren’t courting one another or going out on dates. He wasn’t about to hand over his senior pin to the man nor was he willing to accept anything of the sort of John. When they would go out for a night on the town, they didn’t sit close or hold hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shit, with Roger being as frantic as he was, he was surprised he even bothered going out anymore. John wanted to enjoy his last few weeks in the town and who was Roger to deny him? They spent their time wisely, putting up a good show for all those around them. John was still his tutor, still spoke curtly to him around his parents and house guests.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were friends, but a professional relationship was still to be kept, at least to the public eye. Once they were alone however, the facade was gone and the two would be as close as men could be. Roger found that kissing had quickly become one of his favorite activities. He used to watch Brian and Chrissy kiss in the corner, back when he was the third wheel and he would choke back his self indulged agony at the thought of being alone forever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yet there he was, lying in bed with an angel of a man, clothing gone, and their lips smacked together as they swallowed one another moans.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They didn’t have sex right away. John didn’t push for it and Roger knew why. It took him long enough just to kiss him, getting intercourse involved would surely scare the young man off. They went slowly. Each day learning something new about one another.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He found that John’s hands were good for more than just holding a paintbrush and that his pretty lips looked nicely wrapped around something other than a cigarette.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they finally did cross that bridge, it wasn’t as horrendous as Roger had feared. He was nervous as all hell but John was sweet and encouraging. He wasn’t a virgin like Roger and talked him through it. When it was over and they were cleaned up, they laid together talking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John spoke about his past lovers and what they had taught him. He never saw himself as a hopeless romantic. He knew they would never work out and was happy for what they had taught him along the way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Especially my first girlfriend. She taught him how much I truly loved men,” He had teased.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger knew how cliche it was to want to fall in love with your best friend or marry your first love. His parents had their own semi-romantic love story, but he never allowed himself to get lost in it. Life was too short to hold onto such fantasies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still. Being there with John didn’t make the idea nearly half as terrible as he thought it would be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They would do this often, almost daily. Lock themselves in one of the other rooms and have sex. It wasn’t dirty enough to be called fucking. Not really. Now and then they would get a bit heavy-handed but it never got too rough. And Roger sure as hell wasn’t about to call it ‘making love’ so sex would have to work for the time being.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now and then the two would find themselves feeling a bit adventurous. Sometimes they would sneak around the house like in the library or sitting room. They would hold hands under the table or kiss in the backyard. They had sex in the gazebo one night when the moon was bright and the wind was warm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they would go in public, the girls would giggle but John never had eyes for them. And some pricks would mock the way John held himself and call him a fag. He never gave a reaction, not until Roger did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It happened one too many times and finally, Roger just snapped, attacking the bastard right there on the street. A small brawl broke out and while nobody got arrested, Roger’s parents found themselves both proud and furious with their son. Sticking up for someone who was practically family at this point was courageous but violence never solved anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His punishment was that he couldn’t visit his grandparents the following week, meaning he and John would have the entire home to themselves. No watchful parents or nosey gardeners. Just the two of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was near perfect.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger didn’t know if this was what it was supposed to feel like. The utter ease that came from just being together. When they were alone there was no pretending. Roger didn’t have to put on a mask and act like his life wasn't as mundane as it was. When he was with John, his life was full of color. He looked forward to each day and found that the little things were beginning to matter more and more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His art was still terrible but it was getting better. John had dragged him down to the beach and placed his hands over his eyes. It was a dangerous move, but no one was around but them. He told him to close his eyes and listen to the water. He could almost hear the colors around him. In the sea, in the wind. It was the most beautiful sound in the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They laid together there, on the beach as the sun began to set. Roger’s head rested carefully on John’s lap as he read aloud lines of poetry. John’s fingers caressed his hair gently, causing full relaxation to come through. Roger had never felt so at peace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Roger would read from the text John would mirror his words, knowing them by heart. It made Roger smile as he tilted his head up to look at him. As the brunet leaned forward, Roger held his head as he kissed him. It was one of the easiest things in the world; just being with him. Happy and content.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But even then Roger knew it couldn’t last. John was set to leave by the end of summer and Roger had no intentions of following, even when the brunet spoke so strongly about his homeland.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He made the countryside sound so wonderful. John spoke about his home estate that sounded more like a palace than a home. He mentioned how they had their swimming area, a private place where they could just exist in harmony.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you had all that why the hell would you leave it to come here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John had laughed at the question and answered it simply. “It was a job. Teaching art is my passion. In the end, I just followed what I loved.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John had other job opportunities when the summer was over. He’d go all around the world, teaching at schools and becoming somebody else’s tutor. Roger didn’t like to think about John being alone with another student. Being alone with another man whose mind he could mold into a perfect work of art.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger knew it was wrong. Not because it was a sin to think of John the way he did but because John did not belong to him. He was free to do what he pleased and be with whoever he wanted. Jealousy wasn’t going to get Roger anywhere so he kept those thoughts to himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When his parents had returned and their endless amounts of privacy were over Roger took John into town for some get together that Brian had mentioned. It was more of a going-away party for those who were leaving for the military. Roger hadn’t realized how many in their town had enlisted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two sat together while John spun Chrissy on the dance floor. John was a good dancer, having had lessons since he was a child. It was just another thing the man was good at.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Chrissy is mad I won’t marry her,” Brian mentioned quietly, yet suddenly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You won’t?” It was news to Roger, who had been waiting for Brian to pop the question ever since Chrissy agreed to start seeing him. “Why the hell not?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m shipping out in a few days. She may be happy with a quick ceremony but she deserves better,” Brian sucked slowly on his cigarette, watching as his lady love smiled and laughed at something John had said. “Besides, the chances of me returning could be slim. I don’t want to leave her a widow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You're not going to die, Brian,” Roger told him as he could see into the future.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The truth was none of those guys heading out knew what their fate was. In such a small town nobody expected anything good from war but some heroes had returned like nothing even happened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they returned home that night, Roger set up the radio in the attic. It was dusty and the only light they had came from the moon shining through the window. It was small and private. Roger didn’t like to dance but John did. And Roger wanted to give it a try. With his parents sleeping just one level below them the two dances slowly to the gentle music.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger didn’t know which one of them was supposed to lead but it didn’t matter. They just stayed in each other’s arms, accepting the warmth that the other offered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They had sex in the attic. On top of the old cot that Roger used to use whenever he would camp outside in a makeshift tent. It was a dangerous game they were playing, and Roger decided to up the ante by letting John take the lead this time around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Having a man be inside you was both everything and nothing like Roger had expected. It was painful and wonderful and so fucking intense. In the end, Roger realized that he had officially given John everything to offer, from his body to his heart. And as the days slowly began to dwindle he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to let this go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thought he could and he swore he would but how could he? When holding John made him feel so real and how kissing him silenced all the harsh sounds in his mind. Even when they weren’t intimate just being by John’s side was enough to make him feel good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How the hell could something deemed wrong make Roger feel like he could take on the entire world? It was a man right clusterfuck and he partly wished they never even started. Starting meant they’d eventually have to stop and that was enough for Roger to want to hide away forever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They didn’t talk about it. They talked about lots of things but never the one thing that needed to be spoken of. John had tried now and then but Roger would always deflect. He would kiss the words away if he had to. Anything to keep John from making this more real than it was. If he tried hard enough Roger could pretend this was all a dream. That when John would leave that this was nothing more than just a strange fever dream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was the only way for Roger to survive after this. The only way for him to be able to go back to his old life and maybe even forget about all the things they had done together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew John knew this. He could sense it in Roger’s resistance. He would smell the underlying fear that lingered every single time they were together. Roger didn’t want to be afraid but how could he not be? They were living in a fantasy world. The things they did in the dark could never be done in the real world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not without risk of having their brains bashed in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How John could live his life day by day without a worry, without fear. It didn’t seem normal. It was more natural than anything. Being completely okay with who he was, even the flaws. And John only had one flaw, but it was a big one. One that could ruin everything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger didn’t like to talk about it. Talk about the thoughts of failure. He had nothing to show off his life and here he was, throwing himself into bed with another man. Could he get any more pathetic?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It happened one night while John was packing. The breakdown between the two. Roger had been somewhat more standoffish as of late, maybe because he knew it was finally happening. John would be gone and then he’d go back to how he was before. Boring and bland and straight. John asked if they would write and Roger told him yeah. Yeah, of course, they would write. Letters of friendship that would go back and forth for as long as they could.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John didn’t believe him. He scoffed and Roger could see he called his bluff. It infuriated Roger because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. They weren’t supposed to get close and he wasn’t supposed to feel this way for another man. They were just supposed to paint and that’s it. Roger was supposed to learn to be more world rounded and now here he was fighting the urge to just forget it all and forget himself and run off with another man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t okay and John had to understand that. He had to understand that Roger wasn’t like him and that being together wasn’t an option. He felt angry and upset and couldn’t stop himself from crying as he shouted at the other man. He didn’t stop crying even after John pulled him in. He tried fighting him. He wanted to hit him. To break away from his touch and destroy what was growing between them. To stomp it out before it could go any further.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it was too late. Roger was in too deep. John had infected him like a virus in the night. Taken over his body and soul and he knew there was no way of letting go no matter how hard he tried or how hard he prayed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When John left Roger thought it would be all right. He thought the temptation would be gone and things would go back to normal. But instead, he was left feeling tired and empty. He sat in the gazebo, staring out into the distance as John made his way back to England. He had his whole life to live and so did Roger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only issue was Roger didn’t. He didn’t have a life. He just continued to exist and watch as the world went on around him. His mother pestered him to get a job or go to school but he couldn’t. He felt nothing for anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His goodbye with John was nothing more than a tight embrace and a silent promise to remember. Their relationship had been their private paradise that was now over. The two Adams were kicked out of Eden and they had to move on with their lives.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger tried. He honestly did. He began working in his father’s office and went out with friends that were still around. When his eighteenth birthday came around Roger realized that he was an adult now. He was a man who could make his own choices.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He saw Chrissy in town and spoke about Brian and the other guys who had enlisted and Roger realized that unlike those fellas he didn’t have anybody to come home to other than his parents. No job. No girl. John was gone and Roger was empty just as before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he joined the army.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a noble decision and while his parents tried to convince him otherwise he made his choice. He was a sinner in the greatest sense so why not make it up to the Lord by fighting the good fight in his country's war?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He passed his physical and got accepted into the boot camp. He learned all he could and found that he didn’t hate everything they taught him. He was a decent shot and could answer questions on the fly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was seen as a good old fashioned boy and when his parents threw him a goodbye party he had more women dancing with him than ever before. If all it took was signing up for the fucking Marines to get a girl to notice him he would have done it long ago.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A letter from John had arrived just days before he was supposed to leave and he thought about keeping it unopened. He went against his better judgment and read it. John was glad to be home but he would be lying if he said he did not miss the states and the people he had met during his stay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t allude to anything inappropriate. He kept it plain and simple but Roger could read through the lines. John missed him and he kissed John. The brunet man eagerly awaited his reply and Roger thought about not giving him one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of just leaving the letter behind and pretending like he never even got it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once again he went against his judgment and sent out a letter of his own. He told him of his choice and how he may not write to him again for a good while. He told John not to worry, that he would be fine. He’d be seeing the world just as John was; he’d just be saving during that time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sent the letter the same day he left. He thought that would be the end of it but alas. Weeks into being on location he received two letters. One from his parents and one from John. He guessed his parents had received it and sent it along, wanting Roger to have something to read and look forward to. With each letter, he would tell himself that he wouldn’t reply. That he would forget all about John and focus on the task at hand but he couldn’t. He was at war now and deep down Roger wanted nothing to hold onto.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he kept writing. He would send letters and poems. He would never call John by his name. Not in case, someone would see. He called him J. And soon enough John caught on and would sign his letters with J instead of John. He was thankful for that even if he knew John was probably rolling his eyes and scowling at the task.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>War was everything and nothing like Roger had expected. It was dark and lonely yet the men were laughing and carrying on heinous acts like it was what they were there to do. It was what they were there to do. To kill people in the name of their country. To fight for their freedom and the freedom of others.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He made new friends and met up with old ones. Brian was baffled to see him but happy to have him there regardless. They did it together. The killing and moving and surviving. He would speak of Chrissy like she was a woman in his dreams while Roger would just sit and grip onto his canteen. Another marine named Jim Beach, though they all called him Miami spoke of his own loved one and asked Roger about his own life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger didn’t say a word. There was talk, about how some of the men would do terrible things due to loneliness and desperation. After all, what happened behind enemy lines stayed behind enemy lines.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would continue to write to John. He would write his letters in the send, pouring his heart and soul into them. Each time he got a letter he would reply. That was his promise. The day John stopped writing to him would be when it all came to an end. Sometimes he’d pray for it. Pray that John would move on and forget about him. Pray that he would confess that he found another and that they would be ending their ongoing communication.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And yet he also prayed that it would never stop. Each letter that came was something for Roger to hold onto. Something to keep his head on right. Other guys taunted him. They didn't love letters but they felt like they were. John spoke so gently and wished him nothing but the best. Other guys received pictures of their girls. Some from magazines of naked ladies or pictures their wives had snuck in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All Roger had were words but it was enough for him. He didn’t get into too much detail. It wasn’t worth it. While John was off living his life freely, Roger was watching the world crumble around him. When you’re home, they make going to war sound so heroic, so passionate. You’d go and stand your ground and come home feeling prouder than ever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nobody saw the real pain. Nobody saw the true devastation. Nobody knew what it was like to see the life leave a man’s eyes. Both literally and figuratively. Death wasn’t something you could avoid at war. You were taught to shoot and taught to kill. That was what they were there for. To kill in the name of the United States.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They had come across so many bodies in their travels. Some of their men, some of the enemy. Before, they would whisper a chosen word sent from the Lord for the men who had. Eventually, it got to the point that even a passing prayer wasn’t worth it anymore. How many times could a person speak to God before they finally realized He wasn’t listening?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Death was something to be expected, not something to fear. If you died a soldier on the battleground, you died a hero. And if you returned, then you were a hero just as well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But nobody spoke about the men who returned home more dead than alive. Who had themselves broken off, piece by piece until they were nothing more than shattered ruins. Roger saw it happening more often than not. Saw the friends he had made either die or get hurt or slowly lose themselves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger felt himself slowly begin to slip as well and found the only thing that held him together were the letters from John. He began hiding them, not because he feared what the others would do when they found out, but rather what he’d do if he had lost them. In the dark of the night, he would read them over and over again. He’d imagine John speaking slowly, reading the words aloud.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John’s voice had always been so sweet, so calming. With an accent like his, he could read the phone book and Roger would still be head over heels for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He did fight it. Fight the longing and the need. When they stopped on location, he found himself a girl and went all the way with her. He thought maybe that was all he needed. Some attention and affection. Someone to care about him for once. He got it up, but it was not for her sake. Behind his closed lids he just kept imagining the brunet painter that made his heart twirl.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When it was over, he felt sick and bit his lip to keep from crying out. He walked through the streets and saw a couple of his fellow Marines out and about. They were drunk and looking for some girls of their own. These men weren’t afraid to buy love if they needed it. So many of them were touch starved they’d settle for anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anything else another man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There had been one local that got on some of the guy's nerves. He was open and careless and when he tried to give the marines a good time, he got his ass handed to him. It brought out a fear that Roger had worked so hard to suppress deep down inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was one of the darker things he had mentioned in his letters. He didn’t talk much about death or how he had killed people in cold blood. This he had mentioned; how he watched the same men he shared his canteen with beat the man to a bloody pulp and then carried on like it was nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thought of all the times John had been mocked in town, how he would have nightmares about the same thing happening to him. It was one of the many reasons he pushed away his feelings, pushed away John. The world was not forgiving and God was not listening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The war was going on and nobody cared if you lived or died. Liberty was to be won. That was all that mattered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Brian fought beside him endlessly. He spoke of returning home and marrying Chrissy. Of starting a family. He would poke and prod, try to get Roger to say what he wanted when he returned home, but Roger never gave him an answer. He never asked who J was, but deep down Roger felt he knew.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Deep down he felt like Brian knew exactly what it was he wanted but just never said anything. Maybe he did it for Roger’s sake. To keep the secret for him. He didn’t know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He continued to write. Kept the letters close and protected them for as long as was humanly possible. Roger held strong until the day he lost the letters. It was cold and wet and the men were slowly losing their minds. Miami was dead and Brian was sick. They didn’t know if anybody else was going to make it out of there. Roger didn’t know how it happened. One second he was on top, keeping watch, and the next he was sliding down in the mud, hitting his head on something hard. He didn’t have a helmet on. He had no protection.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he woke, he was being dragged away; the letters John wrote to him sunk deeply into the mud and were left behind. It was the only time Roger broke down. The only time he tried to fight his band of brothers. When the morning came, Brian was carried away and Roger was more alone than ever</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you to everyone who is reading this! I promise to continue it. Until then, tell me what you think below.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Roger was certain he would die there. In the dirt, with nobody but his parents to give a damn. Instead, he found himself being sent home when the war was officially over. He never dreamed of a day when it would be over. Then again, for some, it never would be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Some men didn’t know what to do when it was over. For so many of them, the war was all they had. No job, no wife, no life to return to. What was life without killing now that they had done it so often? Soon enough they’d all be forced to find out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had been over for Brian before himself. When he was sent home, Brian was the one who came to get him. He was in full health again. He was smiling and in regular clothing. Roger stood tall in his uniform but felt small next to his friend. He was smiling and happy, more than happy to have his best friend home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had finally popped the question and planned on marrying Chrissy in the fall. Roger would be the best man, which he was happy about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger continued to tell himself that he was happy. Happy to be home. Happy to be alive. He hugged his parents and embraced the welcome home party they had thrown for him. He smiled when the girls would talk to him, each of which was flirting and giving him eyes in his uniform.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He excused himself from the table and went to the bathroom. He filled the tub up with water and took off his jacket, and then his shirt. Dipping his head into the water, he released a gut-wrenching scream; one he had been holding in for far too long. He continued to scream and scream until he knew a knock on the door. He played it off like it was nothing; dressing and drying his head with a towel before heading back down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He did that for a while. Continued to scream in the water and cry into his pillow. He had more nightmares that kept him awake, kept him from sleeping properly. He spent more nights awake, sitting outside under the moon with a cigarette in his mouth. He got used to smoking while in the marines. Smoking and drinking and killing were some of the things that he had gotten used to. Things he had gotten good at.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mother had suggested he see a doctor, but he refused. A doctor wasn’t going to take away the pain. Wasn’t going to take away the dark memories that lingered in his mind. He was all right from the neck down and that's all that mattered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>His father didn’t rush him to get a job. He dealt with soldiers before, helped them deal with battle scars that didn’t heal straight away. Some scars never healed. It’s what his father told him when they were alone. When Roger finally allowed himself to break down in front of someone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hadn’t been held by someone since he was a child, but he stayed in his father’s arms for a long while, allowing the embrace. He told his mother he didn’t plan on doing anything for a long while and despite being an obvious disappointment, Roger didn’t care.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He watched the rest of the world go on around him. Brian and Chrissy got married and went on their honeymoon. He danced with her friends and stood by his side, but he was miserable the whole time. The only thing stopping him from downing an entire bottle of vodka was seeing a face he never thought he’d see again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>As luck would have it, Chrissy had family from all over and the beautiful brunet’s cousin just so happened to be none other than Freddie. He never thought he’d see the man again but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t against it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They sat together talking and slowly Roger opened up about what he had seen. He just didn’t understand how Brian could be so relaxed, so unaffected the way he was. Roger knew life wasn’t fair, but this was just cruel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Freddie was quiet when he admitted to the things he had seen and the things he had done. He spoke about how sometimes surviving was worse than dying because it meant you had to just keep on going. The only advice that he could give was for Roger to find something worth living for. No matter how impossible it seemed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, the conversation turned to the topic of John. Roger just shook his head. He had no way of reaching the man after he lost his letters so it had been months since they last spoke. Roger didn’t even know if John knew he was still alive and he didn’t ask Freddie to tell him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was better this way. Roger . . . he wasn’t the same person was before. Pieces of him were gone and his spirit was shattered. There was nothing left of him now. Nothing to even offer the man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except little did he know that Freddie was something of a gossiper. Not before long, a letter had arrived addressed to Roger. He stared at it for a long while, thinking of throwing it away. It would have been better if he did. He could go on and pretend like it never happened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>But curiosity got the better of him and eventually, he ripped the envelope open and pulled the letter out. It was several pages long. Roger felt like John had sent him a fucking manuscript rather than a letter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He read each word, again and again, trying to grasp everything that John had poured into it. How happy he was that Roger had survived the war and how there was no denying that the man had come back changed. He spoke of all the times he would see Freddie return and how he would pretend like a piece of himself hadn’t been chipped away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The brunet didn’t know how Freddie did it. How he continued to go and move up rank while keeping a smile on his face. Some people were born for it. Others are just playing pretend.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He spoke of what he had been up to since their last exchange. He traveled all over Europe, showing off his new pieces. It seemed he had given up on tutoring and focused more on his professional work. John had a future, a life that he was happy to be living while Roger was stuck in an endless melancholy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He talked about the things they had done and how John thought of them often. He wondered if Roger had found his happiness in one way or another or if he still thought of John often in more than just memories.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He offered small words of advice on how to survive. While Roger was never one for painting, the trials they would go through before starting up a new project always relaxed them both. Laying in the bed of roses or walking along the tall grass meadows was a wonderful way to let your thoughts drain out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John would speak so lovingly to him. Mentioning how one could sit by the ocean side and listen to the colors in the wind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger had tried it once before. After storming the beaches, the marines were given a small moment to use sit and exist without gunfire or explosions. Roger sat in the sand and closed his eyes, trying to listen for the colors. He heard nothing. That was all over now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hurt Roger more and more with each passing word. How much this man cared for him. How it went against everything Roger has never known.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The letters he had lost on the battlefield were a part of him yet new ones were coming to him. Speaking so strongly of wanting to be together, for once and for all. No fear or judgment or hate. John wanted him, like this. Broken and bruised, but still alive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Roger didn’t write back, another letter arrived. It was shorter but filled with more emotion than the other. John wanted to visit. To come back to London and see Roger for himself, but not without permission. He spoke of their time together with such devotion and swore that if Roger still wanted him, then he would be his without question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>How a man could be so welcoming despite the brunet pushing him away time and time again was baffling. Perhaps despite being good at his art, John was just plain stupid. And Roger was even worse off for even thinking about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe things were different in Europe but nothing changed over here, not even after the world. People were still hateful, still fearful of God. Roger had seen so much death and distraction and took the lives of men who were doing the same thing he was doing, fighting for their country.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could give so much of himself and yet the truest part of him was to be snuffed out because it didn’t fit into society's way of living. He knew men who had returned home but their minds were still on the battlefields. Some of those men had chosen to end their lives, choosing to sin one final time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger thought that if he was to go against God, shouldn’t it be for a reason that Johnefitted him in one way or another?</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>But not like this. Not when he was still so shattered, not when he had nothing to offer the man. A third letter came, and this time John was short and sweet. He would come whenever Roger called to him, but it was Roger’s choice. He would wait by the water for the day to come.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>If it ever did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cleaning up his room one day, he found the old poems he used to write to impress his former tutor. He thought nothing of them until his mother stumbled upon them and as a surprise, submitted them to the town paper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger was furious at first as they were personal to the man. He wanted each copy to be burnt in their fireplace until they caught sight of someone of importance. Roger never took writing seriously until the possibility of making money off it came along.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was small stuff. Poems here and there. People liked reading sweet words from a broken man. It made him more relatable. It gave him the chance to go to New York and even a possible publishing deal. The writing was second nature for him. He allowed his heart to speak instead of his head and found the voice inside him that had been muffled for so, so long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He found all the pieces he had written for John so long ago, buried deep inside the chest that he kept locked away in his bedroom. He felt strange, sharing them with the world when they had originally been for only one pair of eyes. He took a few pieces he preferred the most and placed them in the collection with a few of his newer pages.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he did get published, he dedicated the book to his inspiration, to the thing that kept him going. To his B.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They had thrown a party for him at his home. Everybody in town arrived and for the first time since he returned from the war, Roger finally felt something other than disdain and loathing. People cheered him on not for fighting for their country but for turning his darkness into something light.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sat with Brian who was holding his firstborn child. They spoke about where the years have taken them. He was happy to see the shimmer back in his best friend's eyes, but something was missing. Something that Roger had been denying himself for the longest time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“After all the hell we’ve been through fighting to save the world, I think we deserve our bit of happiness, don’t you think?” He had asked him as the baby slept peacefully in his arms. “I got mine. When the hell are you going to get yours?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger had thought long and hard about those words, knowing he had to make a choice. Only when he was cleaning out the attic as a favor to his mother did he get a start.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sketchbook was lying under the cot, collecting dust after all these years. Roger had never touched it before, as it had always been under lock and key in John’s possessions. Opening it up, he found countless drawings of beautiful things. Of trees and animals and people.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>And himself. So many pictures of himself. Some that looked staged, the ones he had sat for back when John asked him so sweetly, while others were out of place. From memory or when Roger didn’t realize he was being watched.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inside the binding was John’s name and to his surprise, his address. Roger didn’t know what got to him. Maybe it was all the words our encouragement people had been telling him over time. Maybe it was him realizing it was a fine time for him to have his happy ending.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kissing his mom goodbye and telling his dad he would call, Roger took the sketchbook and left his home for something bigger and better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t know what to expect when he arrived at the Deacon Estate. Gone was the young teenager who was bashful and full of emotions and here stood a young man who no longer lived with the fear of God lingering over him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he knocked, he expected to see a family. John’s family. He thought the man would move on without him, would reject him, and tell him to leave. Instead, he was told by a staff member that the man was down by the water, working on his latest piece of work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger found him there. Sitting in the sand, watching the ocean. He moved carefully, trying to think of what to say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was just feet away from him when a small voice in his head told him to turn back. That this was strong. That it was unnatural for two men to be in love. Roger told that voice to go fuck itself. That he had been to hell and back and that if God wanted to create war and give a man the power to kill another, then he also gave him the power to love another.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a time when Roger thought John might love him. He couldn’t help but wonder if he truly loved him still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Moving slowly, Roger sat beside the brunet man in the sand, taking in his profile. He got older, and his hair grew longer but he was just as lovely as when they said their goodbyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re here,” John muttered, his voice tight in his throat. And he had tears in his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you still hear the colors, Mr. Deacon?” Roger asked him quietly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, he moved forward, pressing his lips to John’s. It was the first kiss he had since the day they parted and it was the one thing he was clinging onto since he returned home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” John demanded, his hands gripping at his clothing. They were holding onto one another like there was no tomorrow. And maybe there wouldn’t be. Maybe for them, they would only have tonight, but it was enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John had opened his heart in more ways than one man could ever imagine and Roger was here, ready to give John his heart back in return. Open and free, willingly at last.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I took your advice. I followed what I loved.” He confessed, not wasting another breath before pulling him in for another loving kiss.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, as of right now, this story is complete. For those who have read the Hardzello version, you know it is far more for them, but to take that and tweak it into Dealor would be a bit more difficult. Perhaps at some point, I will get there, until then please enjoy this! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Also, silence is violence. Black Lives Matter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Only Seven Days</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I really didn't intend on writing this. I am an incredibly lazy person. But I did it for you, my loyal readers. This is all for you.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>John had been painting since he was a child. It’s always been his true passion. He started as a small lad, making silly, pointless finger paints. Making lovely pictures for his mother to hang up in the window. As he got older, he found that he had a certain niche for it. He could draw from memory and make the most realistic sketches. He could take a paintbrush and create the most vivid horizons. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John had never expected to turn it into a career. He went to school for it, learning what he could from the great masters in his area. Europe was full of artists, but John knew he was better than most. He had an eye for art. He could make something out of nothing and knew that this truly was his calling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He began painting by request. For all the wealthy folk in the area who wanted their portrait hanging by the fireplace. Sometimes he would paint other things and sell them from time to time before he finally landed his gallery. He expected only a handful of people to arrive, but he found that his name was passed around more often than not. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>People liked his work and he found himself going around England, hosting art events where people knew his name and bought his work. He made good money from his art and he never longed for more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If someone wanted him to create something that he did not want to create, he would rather tell them no than forcing himself to put in the effort. It was his true privilege there. He knew about the artists that were starving in the street, accepting any job they could to put food on the table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He came from a very well off family and while some may believe he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, John knew how hard he worked. Some people were not born with the talent he was. One would not question a doctor or lawyer, so why question the artist? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mother had always been proud of his work. Never did she try to shove him in a different direction, to pick a proper profession. His happiness always came first, even if it meant he would be taking jobs that brought him far, far away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t accept it at first. He was more or less content working in London, but as his name grew more and more, he found lots of people wanting to take him in so he could teach them the ways of the arts. He wasn’t interested in the Lord and Ladies in his own country, so he took a job in the city.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He received a letter from a woman hoping he’d be willing to come across the sea and teach her son a thing or two and was willing to pay a heavy sum if he agreed. John rarely traveled to the city, as he much preferred his country lifestyle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He always believed that art was something that could be taught, but raw talent had to come from the inside. Whether or not the young lad could handle it was all up to him. He accepted the offer and before he knew it, he was off to London.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rather well off family was warm and welcoming. The father was a dentist and put all his time and attention into his work. The mother was mostly a housewife. She was sweet and kind, with big hats that reminded him of his mother’s collection. When he met the son he found that he wasn’t the little boy that he had envisioned, but rather a young man. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A handsome young man at that. Roger was the type of man who did not believe himself to be worthy of anything. Of affection or attention or anything of the sort. He was young, fresh out of school with no idea of what he wanted to do with his life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was why John was there in the first place. To open the young man’s mind to a new world of possibilities. John took on the challenge without a worry. He taught him all about the world of art. He ignored the rolling eyes and sarcastic comments.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Most rich people didn’t always appreciate beautiful things. Whether it be art or people. John did what he could to teach the young man what he could and while it had a bit of a rough start, they found their way around one another.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger was a decent person and he was easy to get along with after a bit of warming up. The man was obsessed with his looks and cars. The latter being something he didn’t speak of often. It seemed he was shy about it. About reading such beautiful poetry and the work that inspired him to write pieces of his own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was the writing that sparked something in John. Possibly even something between the two of them. Roger could write such beautiful poems and soliloquies. He had a way with words that could only be captured on paper and John wanted him to have a grasp on that. He would bring him countless papers, words that haunted him in the darkness of the night that he only shared with his tutor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It made John feel a sense of pride, knowing that they had something to share. A secret of sorts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John had another secret that wasn’t a secret, but Roger was not ready to face that as of yet. He never made it obvious, but he was sure the young man could see the way John would look at him. Roger was a gorgeous creature and any person would be a fool to not appreciate that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger had confessed to him that most of the young ladies in town never gave him a second look. They were more into the so-called ‘greaser’ types or the soldiers that were coming and going. John thought they were foolish for passing in Roger. Who could resist such a lovely man? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He never made a move on him. How could he? He was the son of his employer. It wouldn’t be right. But he enjoyed a look now and then. Roger had taken him down to the beach once and the two stripped off their clothing and ran into the water. John couldn’t think of a better place to be. It was his version of heaven.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes when they would sit together outside, reading or smoking or listening to the gentle music in the moonlight, John would think that Roger was looking at him in a way that was more than just friendship. It was only ever for a moment, a sliver of a second. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The people in town could sense it better than the Taylor family. John was used to the taunts, to the cruel words. He had never outwardly said the word, but that didn’t matter here. In England, he had more privacy. He could do what he wanted on his estate without anybody giving a damn. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Here, he couldn’t go to an art supply store without someone throwing a stone against his back and cursing him out. They’d say horrible names and horrible things, but John never allowed it to bother him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew who he was and what he was doing. He never flirted with any man in America. He wasn’t there for that. He was there to work and he focused on his work. He would smile and be polite to the ladies that would come to visit the Taylor household. He knew very well that they had high hopes of him asking one of them out, but he never did. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would watch Roger from afar. See how he would roll his eyes at the ladies and their smiles and giggles. He isn’t jealous. Not in the least. But he did feel something. John had tried to get him to show it. To be open about what he felt and what he wanted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger sucker-punched him for it, but John didn’t care. He was laughing as the younger man straddled his waist and pinned into the ground. He wanted Roger to feel something. Anything other than the ridiculous melancholy that he so clearly accepted. And if rolling around in the dirt was the thing that would wake up those emotions, then so be it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger’s mother made it very clear that such actions would not be accepted, however. And while it pained John to walk away, he had to be noble about his decision and do what he believed to be best. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If the man wanted to lie to himself, about his talent and his passions, then so be it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John made his way to the water's edge to find his calm. He was content there, sketching away. He could draw from memory and the one thing in his mind that continued to haunt him was that stupid silly man. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Roger found him by the water, he was not phased. He knew this would be the end for them and John, having never feared anything, decided to take the chance and kissed the young man. Roger did not kiss him back, but he did not push him away either. John took it as a win and left the younger man in the sad to return to their home. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John packed swiftly, deciding not to take any real work with him aside from his sketchbook. Taylor could do what they wanted with it. Sell it or toss it away. He wasn’t bothered in the least. Sometime in the night he was woken by a knock and found Roger standing there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked anxious and annoyed. He quickly said his peace, insisting that John did not have to leave. John wanted to argue with him. If he did not leave, he would need a reason to stay. A real reason, not the bullshit answer that Roger had given him as some lazy attempt to make it better. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They didn’t speak of the kiss that night. Nor did they when the following day came. He took the lady of the house out and gave her a lesson of her own. She was pleased and thanked him for not being so hard on her dear boy. John fought to roll his eyes. Mrs. Taylor was a lovely woman but she was dim in so many ways. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She put no pressure on her boy and instead allowed him to skate around without a future, without a passion. She didn’t know of the things he had written, the fantastic words that spoke so quietly yet had so much power. Only John did. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like the kiss, it was their little secret. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Things had changed between the two men, but John refused to allow it to bother him. He wasn’t scared like Roger was. He didn’t have anything to hide. He wasn’t worried or fearful and didn’t care about what the fools in town said about him. They could whisper and shout all they wanted. John was true to himself and he was proud of that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He and Roger had barely spoken a word until an old friend arrived on their doorstep. Freddie Mercury had gone to school with John back in the tiny little town and was currently serving in the British Royal army. He was in London for work and decided to stop by since John happened to be in the same area as his young cousin Chrissy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rather than allow the man to stay in a local inn, John persuaded Mrs. Taylor to allow Freddie to stay in their second spare bedroom. They caught up on everything, talking about life and what was going on in the world. The war around them was going on and nobody wanted to deal with it the way Freddie believed it needed to be dealt with. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John tried his best to have fun with Freddie here as it had been so long since the two were together. They were grown up now and had their problems to deal with. So for the three days, he was staying with him, he wanted to pretend like it was the old days. When they were young and wild and careless and free. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger didn’t like that and John knew it. John could see the glares that Roger would send them and how curt he was whenever Freddie was in the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite Freddie also having a bit of a fancy for a man here and there, he preferred a woman but that was his business. John wasn’t going to lie and say he didn’t stand a bit closer to the man whenever Roger was around. Perhaps it was cruel, but he didn’t care. If the young man wanted to act like a young child and scowl in the corner then John was going to give him something to scowl about. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger practically dragged him outside to have a bit of a tif about it all. John was certain that the blue-blooded blond would bust his face in just for acting on the things people thought about him. Once again, John wasn’t phased. Wasn’t worried. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t need to be protected because he had nothing to hide. He loved who he loved and while he may not be in love with Freddie wasn’t going to hide the affection he had for him, even if it was mostly played up to be a thorn in Roger’s side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Freddie departed, John carried on with his life. He had just a few weeks until the summer would be over and he could go home. He’d forget all about the things he learned here and forget about the scared little boy that lived just down the hall from him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Roger burst into his room, he didn’t even flinch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s gone. You won’t have to rip your eyes from your head at the sight of us any longer.” He told him, not even bothering to look up from his sketchbook.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John turned his head, opening his mouth to continue speaking but his words were cut short by a kiss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was hard and unpracticed. Roger had admitted to him some time ago that while he had been with a handful of women, rarely did he put any real effort into it. They were easy lays for him. Girls he could flirt with when he got bored, but nobody that gave him any real excitement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But now Roger was here, in his room, holding onto his face and kissing him like a mad man. When he pulled away, the brunet was panting and staring at him. They stood there, just watching one another. John thought of speaking but chose to use his lips for something else instead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He kissed Roger earnestly, holding onto him tightly. Roger’s fingers tightened around his shirt, gripping onto him as he would disappear at any moment. They stayed like that, wrapped up in one another, kissing and touching ever so gently until the parents of the home returned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger sprang up wildly and John turned his face to him with the roll of his eyes. “Don’t worry. You don’t owe me anything. Everybody gets curious now and then.” It was true. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger wasn’t the first questioning man that John had been with. London was full of it. Men who didn’t know what they wanted but found themselves leaning towards the male gaze. Some turned out to be lonely bastards who shunned themselves away and ran into the arms of the first woman who gave them attention. While others were like John. Open and free and gay. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John wasn’t going to pretend like this was some magical moment. He knew Roger well enough by now. Knew he wasn’t going to fall in love and confess his sins. It was just fun and John was okay with that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two men found their ways around one another. They would act normal out in the open, act like friends, like a tutor and a student. That's what they were and there was no pretending. But behold closed doors they were gentle and sweet. They were lovers in every sense of the word. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took a bit of time but Roger grew more open to the idea of being with a man. John had told him all about his own experiences, both with men and women. He had tried a bit of everything but found at the end of the day, he longed to be in the arms of a man rather than a woman. He saw no wrong in it and neither did his family. He wasn’t hurting anybody nor was he hurting himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger was a nervous sexual partner at first. John knew the man liked having the blond’s hands on his ass, but having more there was too much to handle right away. John took it gladly and it was such a strange time. They were laughing and smiling. Losing your virginity shouldn’t be adorable, but it was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They got better after that. Roger grew more confident. John liked seeing him in this light. Seeing his heated gaze across the table and knowing that after dinner, when the lights were down low and his parents were asleep, Roger was going to fuck him into oblivion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They did more than just sex and John liked that too. They went back to being close again, even closer than they were before. Roger had done his best to show John the joy of having an expensive car, while the brunet tried to show him how to play cricket. Both games had them laughing and running around the yard like a couple of lads. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They would share kisses and hold hands when the world wasn’t watching. John didn’t like hiding, but he did it for Roger’s sake. For his sanity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>People still made comments but John didn’t give a damn. No amount of hate could stop the good that he was feeling and that was a fact. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They would lie together in bed, listening to one another’s heartbeats. They would dance to music and make little promises. John had suggested Roger come visit one day, to see his family's estate, and sit with him by the beach that his family-owned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger’s family had money but even he was taken back when he found out the life that John would be returning to. The young blond didn’t understand why he’d give up all he had to teach some city kid about painting but it was more than that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t have to come to London. He could have continued to live his life in Europe and show off his work, but he wanted more. He wanted to have a purpose with his art and he found it in Roger. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He followed what he loved and also found someone else to love along the way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the end of summer came along, there was so much to be said, but John knew better than to speak a single word. There was still going much going on in Roger’s mind. John didn’t want to ruin their last moments by pestering him with things he refused to accept. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They said goodbye with a tight embrace. Not with a kiss or words of love, but with a hug and a glance. He said goodbye to Dr. and Mrs. Taylor, and got into the cab and went on his merry way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He arrived home a few days later and his mother was so happy to see him. He had written her letters on and off, but it wasn’t enough. She was glad to have the boy back, glad to see what he had enjoyed himself in London but she didn’t want him to return any time soon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had asked him everything. About the people he worked for and the friends he had made. John didn’t tell his mother about Roger and himself. She wouldn’t have cared in the least. Or rather, she would have been happy for him, but then he would have to explain to her that he had fallen for a man who refused to accept his feelings out in the open. It wasn’t a heartache he wanted to share. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wrote Roger a letter nearly a month after he had returned. It was a simple one at that. He explained that he had arrived home safely and was currently going back to work at his gala. He had a few requests from people but didn’t think anything of it. It just worked. Nothing passionate, nothing with purpose. The people paying him just wanted something pretty to hang up and show off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t want to do it but he needed to. It was something to do other than sitting around and missing the man. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he got a letter back from Roger, he was surprised to see he was no longer in the big bright city, but rather traveling with the Marines. Roger’s best friend joined not long ago. Brian had always been very kind to him, always ignoring the cruel words of the others in town and accepting John in any form he came in. He liked Brian and wished him the best of luck when he departed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger never showed any intentions of joining the war and it terrified John endlessly. He heard horror stories from Freddie about the things he had seen and while he would never call Roger weak, it was easy for even the strongest man to lose his edge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John was scared for him and he confessed this, but he promised to keep him in his thoughts and his prayers. He wanted the young man to return home healthy and reminded him to be proud of signing up and serving his country.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John wrote back again and again. He didn’t expect Roger to speak to him. He thought that this was his way out. That he would find his purpose on the battlefield and forget all about John, but he never did. They went back and forth, keeping up the conversation that had previously. Roger would never speak his name in the letters and John knew why.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t like it. Didn’t want to pretend for his sake, but he did. He became his special little friend, his secret lover, his “J.” Roger would write him poems, would tell him how he felt like he was lost in the dark, but found that each letter that arrived for him was more and more of a reason for him to find the light. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They confessed things to one another, things neither expected to ever say. Roger had been with somebody else, a woman he had met. It was a weak attempt to find something he knew didn’t exist. In the end, he felt nothing and as he walked home he found his fellow marines beating some flamer who dared to flirt with them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger felt trapped. Each day was getting worse and worse and the only thing that kept him hanging on were the letters they would exchange. He saw these horrible acts and he spoke of ending the life of another person. Roger was slowly slipping into a void that not even John was sure they could pull him out of. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John decided to put his heart out on the line and confess it all to Roger. They were never meant to find one another but they did and he was so happy for it. What was meant to be fun and exciting turned into a real friendship and even possibly a relationship? John spoke of love in a way that was so raw and rare and he feared that Roger would never write to him again if he read it aloud. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it turned out he never did. John never got a response from Roger. Not a letter explaining that they had to end it. Not goodbye. The last thing John wrote to Roger was him saying that he loved him and while he did not regret it, he lived in fear that the man may not have even seen it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t know which was worse. The possibility of Roger dying without knowing his true feelings or reading it all and cutting him from his life. John didn’t know and it worried him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Weeks went on and nothing ever came. John carried on with his life. Carried on with his work. Roger was always a constant in his mind, but it was never something he spoke about. To him, it was like Roger didn’t even exist outside of his mind. He knew it wasn’t healthy but it was the only way for him to cope with reality. Too many people died during the war and it was a clear possibility for Roger to have been one of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John thought of writing to Taylor’s but he didn’t want to be a bother. He didn’t want to rustle up any emotions if the two had lost their son so he just let it go. He put all his focus on his work and tried to move on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He went on dates. Smiled pretty for the men that came around, but it never turned into more. John didn’t want it to. He knew he had to let it go. That he had to live his own life and he was trying. He was painting and drawing. He was selling his work and taking requests. He didn’t care about the art anymore. If somebody wanted him to draw a fat kitty cat wearing an ugly bowtie and a hat then he’d do so. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d take on any task because his work kept him busy. And being busy left very little room for thinking. The less he thought about, the less he worried. And the less he worried, the more carefree he could be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John was almost beginning to believe it all himself until one afternoon he ran into a familiar face in town. The war was over and Freddie had returned. He was unfazed by it all, but he was hiding something. They sat together in a cafe and John told him to talk about it. To express his emotions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keeping it all bundled up wasn’t healthy and even if the man had been through this before and made a career out of it, that didn’t there weren’t things haunting his mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Freddie did make his confession, it wasn’t what John had expected to hear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I saw him.” He muttered coyly. “Roger. When I was in London, for my cousin's wedding. He was there.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John remembered meeting Feddie’s young cousin. She had been courting the young May boy and it seemed upon his return they rekindled their romance. John didn’t know what to say to this news. Hearing that he was alive . . . it was wonderful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was alive and well and living his life in his hometown. John couldn’t be more pleased. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s not well, John. The war got to him in ways nobody other than fellow soldiers would understand.” Freddie shifted in his seat, shaking his head at his cup. “He didn’t even want me to tell you this. It was like he felt better off with you believing he was gone.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad you told me.” John’s voice was thick and slow. He shifted in his chair, his fingers twitching towards his glass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew he shouldn’t have done it. If Roger wanted to speak to him, he would have reached out. But he couldn’t stop himself from writing the letter. He poured his heart out into it, expressing every emotion he could muster.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How happy he was that he had survived the war and was back home to his family. He mentioned that while he hadn’t been through anything even remotely close to what Roger had, he understood where the pain was coming through. War was not easy and it never would be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>People painted these ideas that when you join the army, you are having the time of your life. You’re representing your country and saving the day. All the while you were killing another person. Just an innocent man who was told the same damn lies. Of course, something like that went to your head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Healing was important and the only thing that could heal a more internal wound was time. He had suggested little things. Taking a book and sitting by the window. Count the petals in all the flowers he saw. Going by the water and listening to the wind. Hear the colors as they whist around him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He never received a letter in return, so he kept writing. He knew how hard it was for him, adjusting to average life after living the way he had in the marines. Waking up every morning to the sun in your face and not awaiting pistol. Waking up in a bed and not on the ground. John could only imagine the dreams that haunted the blond. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thought about going to him. About packing his things and going back to London to see him. But the possibility of being shunned, of being pushed away was too likely. John didn’t expect Roger to return home from the war the same person. He was older now and he had seen so much darkness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wanted to take the man into his arms and show him that there was still good in this world, but that wasn’t a decision he could make. If Roger wanted to heal, to grow, he had to make the movements. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John sent him one final letter and he was straight to the point. He loved Roger endlessly and believed he always would. Their time together was short but Roger opened his heart in ways he never imagined. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They had their differences, yes, but that didn’t change the way John felt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would wait for Roger. He’d wait an eternity if he wanted him to. The invitation was his. All Roger had to do was make the choice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John would carry on like always after that. He would continue his work and focus solely on that. He had lost his leather-bound sketchbook and bought himself a new one. He worked on whatever popped into his mind, though he never sold any of his sketches. Those were for him only. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Time passed and his name began to circle back around Europe once again. He got more offers for tutoring but he turned them all down. Those days were gone. He was older and didn’t feel the need to teach anybody anything anymore. He would paint what people wanted him to paint and collect his money and go on his merry way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only time he was truly happy was when he was by the water's edge. He could sit in the sand for hours, just drawing whatever came into his mind. He had been there, lost in his thoughts and his work when the young man found him, though he wasn’t so young anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John thought he was imagining him at first. His hair was older and his boyish looks were gone. He was handsome and rugged. He looked so bloody tired and yet so fucking beautiful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re here.” The words nearly got caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected Roger to take up his offer. And yet here he was, beside him now, sitting in the sand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you still hear the colors, Mr. Deacon?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, how John had longed to hear his voice. The soft accent slipped through his words. John didn’t have time to process a response. Roger was kissing him. Right there on the beach, so freely. Even if it was a private area, the chances of being seen by someone was still likely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But neither seemed to give a damn. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John grabbed hold of Roger’s shirt, his fingers turning white from the grip. He worried that he may wake up and he’d be gone. That this was some wild dream that he was having. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger was smiling at him. It had been a smile he drew so many times, but no amount of pictures could truly capture that rare beauty that was Roger Taylor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I took your advice,” Roger told him quietly. “I followed what I loved.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another kiss came his way and John was ready for it. He would kiss him forever if he had the chance and by the looks of it, their forever was beginning right now. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is based off my Hardzello fic "39" feel free to read if you're interested.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The nightmares came more often than not. For a while, Roger thought he was over this. It had been three years since the war ended and while they weren’t as harsh as they first had been when he returned home, the vivid memories of no man's land haunted him still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wouldn’t talk about it, not at first. Not with John. The man had been so kind to him, so loving and accepting, Roger felt like he was taking advantage of him. John welcomed him into his home, into his life. He didn’t want to mess it all up by revealing the darkness that lingered deep inside his mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He played it off well enough. When he would awake late into the night, covered in a cold sweat, he would hurry out of bed and off outside. Most nights John would carry on sleeping and when he did wake, Roger would make an excuse that he just needed to smoke.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would crawl back into the bed and wrap his arms around the handsome man he loved so very much, allowing John to coax him back to sleep. He rested well when he was in John’s arms, so that was where he would stay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He never knew someone so lovely could exist, but he did. Long gone was the boy that was too terrified to even glance another guy’s way, and in his place was a man who loved a man endlessly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John had quickly made his home their home, giving Roger the space he needed while also making the estate their little paradise. He had come to terms with his feelings and his sexuality. His parents didn’t exactly understand it, but they didn’t judge him either. He was happy and that was all that mattered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Roger was happy. Even with the thoughts that haunted him, he was so fucking happy with John. And John was happy with him. He knew this as John told him often. Whether they were just sitting together or they were out and about. Resting in the sand by the water or busying themselves with their work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John was painting still, showing off his latest works at the studio while Roger was publishing his second book. It was a hit, just like the first and Roger couldn’t have been more proud. For so long he felt so lost, but he found particular solace in his writing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He mostly stuck with poetry or fiction, not wanting to dive right into writing anything too real. John had suggestions that he writes about his time during the war, but Roger refused. Going back into that would be too painful. Not enough time has passed for him to be comfortable with the things that had happened, with the things he had done.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He partially wondered if that was why he was in so much pain if that was why those thoughts haunted him so. Because he pushed them away and wouldn’t talk about it. He knew that was the responsible thing to do, but how could he?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger nearly lost himself in every sense of the word because of that war and he wanted nothing more than to push it all aside and move on. He wanted to continue to live the life he was living. He had a gorgeous man by his side who wanted him in every way possible. Roger refused to taint that image by revealing the darkness he held so deep inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he pushed it down, allowing the dreams to get to him and plastering a happy face whenever John tried to look too closely. Roger was fairly certain John could sense something was off, but he was kind enough not to question it. It hadn’t gotten out of control, so there was no reason to worry. That was what Roger told himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The nightmares were manageable, so there was no reason to get worried about it. He could handle a few scares, a few sleepless nights.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When his second book was published, Roger had said no to a book tour. He didn’t need it. He didn’t want it. All he cared about were sales. The only thing he did agree to was going home to celebrate the launch. He hadn’t returned since he first left to join John in the countryside and he had to admit, it would be nice to see everyone again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John went with him without question. They had become inseparable since their joining, so Roger wasn’t surprised when John already began packing for them both. His mother was pleased to have them back, especially since John brought her a new painting to hang above the mantle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They would be there for a week and Roger wanted to do as much as he could while also wanting absolutely nothing. He spent the first day with his parents, catching up on everything that had happened while he was gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mother gossiped on and on about this and that, telling him all about who was pregnant and who was divorced. She knew everything about everyone and while it was a little odd hearing all about everybody else’s business, Roger had to admit it was nice to be back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He visited Brian the following day, ambushing him in his home. The shorter man was thrilled to see him and Chrissy wasn’t fair off. They had a second child, a baby boy that was just learning to walk while their daughter was already up and running.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger sat with Brian as John chased the little girl around in the yard. John was sickeningly wonderful with children and it was a sight that was both beautiful and bittersweet to see. They had never spoken of it, but it was fairly obvious they would never have kids of their own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He felt guilty for it, knowing he’d never be able to give his parents a grandchild. Adoption wasn’t going to be an option. Who the hell would give two men a child, even if they could afford one without issue. It was sad, but they dealt with it. Putting their focus on their careers as well as each other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How have you been?” Brian asked him. They spoke now and then, exchanging letters and phone calls when they could.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger knew there was more to Brian’s question. It was loaded and serious and Roger just shrugged, sipping on the beer that Brian had given him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger didn’t drink at home. He didn’t allow himself to. He knew too many men who fought alongside him that lost themselves to the drink to deal with the emotions that were running through their minds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He enjoyed the drink now, to keep it casual and to keep himself loose, but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t give Brian a reason to worry or make him think he wasn’t okay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Truth was, Roger didn’t think he’d ever be okay. He was dealing with something terrible and dealing with it on his own accord. He knew he could ask for help, but he didn’t want to be a bother. He didn’t want to struggle any more than he already was. So he pushed it down, down, until it was buried and almost forgotten about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chrissy demanded that they all go out for dinner. It had been so long she and Brian had a date night. Roger’s mother was more than eager to watch the two toddlers and the two couples went out for a night out on the town.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John and Roger went out now and then, to grab dinner or see a show. John’s estate was comfortably out of the way of everything and everyone so while they had their privacy, they could do what they wanted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>London was different. It was more popular and populated. The city wasn’t a place they would ever welcome people like themselves. They didn’t hold hands or link arms as they walked down the street. They sat together as they ate dinner, with John and Chrissy going back and forth, chatting about this and that, and Brian and Roger laughing about what was going on in this part of the world and that part of the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They held a toast for Roger’s next book and the man had to admit, it felt good to be home, surrounded by friends. He liked the countryside and he made friends there, but Roger would always miss Brian. A man needed his best friend around now and then.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When dinner was finished, they walked through the street, enjoying the nightlife. They walked side by side, their fingers grazing, but neither took the other hand. It didn’t seem to matter, however. People noticed, people stared, and some people spoke up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, queers!” Roger paused, searching for the voice. Brian and Chrissy stopped as well, confused. John, who had been used to being bashed in the past, insisted they just keep going and ignore it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Here was a group of a young man hanging out the back of a pickup not too far off. They reminded Roger of himself years ago. Back when there was nothing to do and no ladies to harass, they sat around drinking and doing stupid shit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What did you call me?” Roger asked, ignoring John’s words to resist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I called you a queer.” The younger man told him, smiling back to his friends.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger remembered being that young, without a care in the world. You thought you were invincible. They lived in a world where Roger was the minority and had very little people to stick up for him, so Roger could already tell the younger male had no idea. He didn’t care that Roger was narrowing his eyes and clenching his fit. No one would stand up for Roger, so the man could do whatever he wanted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t scare me,” Roger told him boldly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the younger man laughed, unfazed by his words. “Just keep walking, poofter. You and your little boyfriend can keep on going and leave our town.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was born here, you nitwit. This </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> my town.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, your kind ain't welcome here.” The man hissed out, his eyes narrowing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger had heard many different words before. Freak. Pansy. Tosser, though he had been called that before meeting John. All meant the same thing. All brought out a blind rage that couldn’t be pushed back down, no matter how much John tried to convince him that it didn’t matter. That they were better than that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the other man spoke again, saying the word that ticked Roger off so very much, the blond didn’t hesitate. He swung his arm back and launched it forward, punching the fucker right in the fact. Everybody around them was stunned and watched with shocked eyes as Roger leaped forward, pushing the man down and holding him there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now you fucking listen to me! I’ve stared down the barrel of a gun and watched men die before my own two fucking eyes! I have killed men younger than you and would do it again if I had to. I fought for this city, for this country, so don’t you fucking dare tell me I am not welcome here!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Roger,” John called out carefully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger didn’t realize he had been screaming. He hadn’t realized a small audience had begun to fill around them. The young guy was staring at him with wide eyes, obviously caught off guard by his outburst.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pushing up off the ground, Roger reached for John’s hand, allowing the blond to drag him away. They didn’t talk about it until they arrived back at Roger's home. His mother had given John his old room, but neither of his parents was surprised when they huddled into Roger’s childhood bedroom. They were adults and knew what they would get up to. It wasn’t mentioned, but that was for the better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John sat behind Roger, running his hand up and down his back. Roger was still seething, his eyes still blazed with fury. He wanted to beat that little bastard to a pulp. Wanted him to feel as badly as Roger felt. He knew it was terrible, but he didn’t care.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t let them bother you, Roger,” John whispered, pressing his cheek to Roger’s naked shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s always going to bother me, John,” Roger confessed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was a fucking war vet. He had seen the worst things a man could ever imagine and yet he was treated like he had some sort of disease. He fought for this land and yet they dared to say he didn’t belong in it. It was absolute bullshit and he refused to stand for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John hated it too, Roger knew this, but he also didn’t like to fight. He could hold off on being intimate in public if it meant not having to deal with the hate of some stranger. Roger hated that the most. He saw Brian and Chrissy, holding hands and kissing on the corner and he was jealous. He wanted to hold John’s hand and kiss him as they waited to cross the road. He wanted to be normal, but he knew he never would be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He went to bed angry that night, John pressed against him as they slept. Or well John slept. Roger went outside and sat in the gazebo, smoking in the moonlight and working on his third novel. Half the poems were angry and the stories he shared were harsh, but they came from his heart. He knew it would be too real for some, but there would be others who appreciated the truth that came from his words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They only had a few more days there and John begged Roger to enjoy it. When they returned to their estate they could do whatever they wanted, but here, they had to follow the rules. John was okay with that so long as Roger was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger wasn’t, not in the least, but he wouldn’t fight it. He stayed home and drank the cheap beer his mother kept in the house and signed some of the books that would be sold at the local book store. He refused to do a signing but would give them these to help them out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger had hoped that coming back to the states would bring a sense of realness to him, but all it did was make him angry. John tried his best to calm him. To make him feel like it was the old days. They went down by the water to sketch and swim and for a small moment, Roger had to admit he was enjoying himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They did things they were never brave enough to do when John first came to work for his family. They kissed in the sand and the back of Roger’s father's car. John blew him out in the gazebo and Roger was more than willing to John over for him behind the bleachers at his old baseball field.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger knew he was pushing it. That he was going up and beyond sexually with John because he knew he could. If this world was going to judge him, then he was going to give them something to be judged about. He would fuck this man wild and make love to him without a second thought. He would praise his cock and swear to be by his side forever and ever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was the second to last night in London when another nightmare came. This one was harder than the other. Scarier. It was a dream that Roger couldn’t escape from. He was crying and thrashing about, to the point where even John couldn’t wake him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he did wake, it was from water being thrown on him, his father sitting above him, shouting his name. Roger was panting, searching for the familiar blond. He reached out, needing to touch him. John held him without a second thought.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn’t describe it when asked. It was just death. Everywhere. Roger was so lost to it, no escape. The war wasn’t over and never would be. It was horrible and he cried in John’s arms for the first time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When morning came, his old therapist visited him. They talked like old times and Roger let it all spill out. John was by his side, holding his hand and listening to him as he expressed his worries. He knew it was stupid, wanting to hide this part of himself, but he didn’t care. He needed to do this. To hide away from the darkness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John was by his side, whispering to him, promising that it would be okay. Roger didn’t know how that was possible, but he wanted to believe him. He needed to believe him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were sitting by the water the morning they were supposed to leave. It wasn’t the gorgeous seaside near their home, but the docks that Roger used to visit from time to time. But it was their place and they were content to visit once more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger was too scared to sleep and John knew the crashing seas would calm him. John was anxious about something and it irked Roger to know that it took him so long to finally notice it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was hoping to ask you this when we first arrived, but I never got the chance,” John mentioned to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was shifting in the sand where they were sitting. He moved forward, going to kneel in front of John. He was fumbling around, searching his jacket pockets for something. When he found it, he pulled it out, holding it up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a ring. Silver and shining. Plain yet so very elegant.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know we can’t . . . we can’t be together like Chrissy or Brian or your parents but my feelings for you are just as true.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It didn’t take long for Roger to realize what John was trying to ask, what he was asking. John was still speaking when Roger reached out to take hold of his face, holding him still as he kissed him deeply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Marry me,” Roger muttered as he pulled back, their foreheads touching and his eyes squeezed shut.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s what I am asking,” John whispered. When Roger opened his eyes, the man was smiling, his green eyes as bright as ever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t care how. We’ll break every law if we have to.” Roger swore, ready to take on the whole world to spend the rest of his life with John.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roger pulled back, tugging at the ring he wore on his right hand. He had gotten it for his high school graduation. Gold with onyx. He brought it with him across the world, a tiny reminder of the real world while the war was going on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He held it up to John, an offering and an exchange for the ring John had gotten him. They switched easily, each slipping the ring on the other man’s finger. They kissed again, holding one another as the warm beach wind blew against them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And for the first time in a long time, Roger truly believed they would be okay.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oops I did it again. </p>
<p>I'll get around to doing the final chapter eventually. Until then, please enjoy this beautiful addition.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, was it absolutely terrible? Should I toss away everything I have? Tell me down below.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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